


Mistake, Unrepeated

by daphnerunning



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Aphrodisiacs, Improper use of potion making skills, LaCE Gone Wrong, M/M, Manipulation, Mildly Dubious Consent, The tiniest bit dub-con?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:06:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28128846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning
Summary: Celebrimbor is hiding something from him. It isn't important.(But it might be.)Annatar has no choice but to take matters into his own hands.
Relationships: Annatar/Celebrimbor | Telperinquar
Comments: 19
Kudos: 77





	Mistake, Unrepeated

**Author's Note:**

> Done for a request by ThatFeanorian on tumblr:
> 
> "the silver gifting fic where tyelpe accidentally gives Annatar an aphrodisiac and the two wake up with no memory of the prior evening soul bound and knowing everything about each other"
> 
> It...went a bit off the rails lol whoops and is probably a bit darker than initially anticipated

Celebrimbor was becoming a problem.

Oh, everything was proceeding as planned, for the most part. Celebrimbor could be said to have been a fast friend, generous with his counsel, kind with his spirit in a way that made Annatar wish he had all the tortures of Angband at his disposal, before his beautiful workshops were lost in sunken Beleriand, shattered by Ancalagon’s useless falling bulk.

(Never dragons. Never again. He had learned that lesson, and would not need it repeated. Dragons as a distraction _only_ , and even then, surely some other sort of...winged beast...would suffice.)

But Celebrimbor gave of his vast store of knowledge, to him, and to most who asked. He loved his craft, and loved the teaching, the sharing of such. Annatar watched him with Narvi and the other dwarves, those stubborn, crafty folk that should never have been in the Song. One more thing to hold against Aulë, his former teacher and master, before he had been taught better. He would take the dwarves, one day. Already many of them bent eagerly to his words. Still, with Celebrimbor giving freely of himself to their hairy ears, the dwarves managed to forge bonds of friendship with the elves. His master had seen such things growing before, and rightly broken them. Annatar would go farther.

(He would not repeat Melkor’s mistakes.)

How loathsome. How inconvenient. Annatar would only have to break them. Celebrimbor, again, created more work for him.

It was difficult to say whether Celebrimbor even realized the vastness of his desire for expiation. Did he know, how longingly he watched the others when they came together with no secrets between them? Had he a mirror, would he even see it in his own eyes?

There was a great mirror, in the great forge of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. Annatar passed it often, and admired the form he’d taken for his own. He had sculpted it carefully, all the best and most beautiful features he’d ever seen combining to make him fair beyond even the usual measure of the Noldor, and he took pleasure in the sight of it.

He hadn’t realized until later, when the Gwaith-i-Mírdain had insisted on braiding his hair as one of them, why Celebrimbor looked startled upon seeing him sometimes. Perhaps he’d put just a _touch_ too much of Nelyafinwë into the features, after all. But he did love beauty, and fondly remembered his favorite plaything of an age long past.

( _Don’t worry_ , he often thought, with an ache in his chest as he stared at Celebrimbor across his forge, the familiar great muscles flexing as the hammer came down, again and again. _I know so much more now. I would never let you twist and wait for me like I did your uncle. With you, everything will be better. I will take you apart so much more quickly. I know how to break elves properly now, even the stubborn line of Fëanor. You will even enjoy it, which I will love and you will hate most of all._ )

The problem, now that their time of research was coming to an end, was that Celebrimbor was generous with all he had, but not all he _was._ There were parts of him, even now, that were closed to Annatar. There were counsels he would not share, troubles he would not speak of, some pain that he would not voice, and it was frankly becoming an obstacle.

He tried.

He was a giver of gifts, after all. He was a friend, was he not? Surely, Celebrimbor could lay his troubles upon the shoulders of a friend, Valar-sent to guide and succor him towards the preservation of all that was yet precious in Arda.

Celebrimbor smiled at him, brief and sad, and looked away, turning back to his forge.

Annatar smoldered with rage.

If he could not break this barrier, Celebrimbor would be a worse problem. If he could not discover what was hidden, Celebrimbor might yet discover his plans, which were ever so close to fruition, after three hundred years of living amongst the most loathsome Children of Illuvatar.

It likely wasn’t important.

(But it _might_ be.)

Nothing could be allowed to taint his victory, nor his moment. He had spent three hundred years--no, twelve hundred years, setting this plan in motion. The rings were beautiful, would be his in a few short days. But Celebrimbor was shying away from him, as if he knew...something.

As if he wanted something.

It could not be borne.

So Annatar paid a visit, waiting until Narvi and the other smiths had gone back to their homely false caverns, carved into the rock of Ost-in-Edhil’s base to make them feel at home. A loathsome part of a disgusting city, carved and sung into life by the one who called herself Lady of the Wood, yet thought herself grand above all Silvan. Surely, soon, her own despicable hypocrisy would be revealed, when he tore her from her high place and made them all see the ruin he made of her.

Let the Valar have their Vanyarin pets, their Noldorin dogs with their heads hanging. He would have Middle-Earth for his own, to shape and to rule. Presuming, of course, that Celebrimbor’s watchful eye could be clouded once and for all.

Once the dwarves were gone, Annatar simply slid into Celebrimbor’s chambers. It took a twist more magic than he was usually comfortable using around the elves of Eregion, but that would have to suffice. Celebrimbor had been refusing to allow him into his private chambers recently, another consideration that made him wary. But, no matter. He heard the sound of water being piped in from the bathhouses, one of the few luxuries Celebrimbor afforded himself, and moved with the ease of long familiarity about the private chambers, fetching a bottle of wine, two goblets of finest crystal, and some hastily assembled board of cheeses and fruits. That sounded sufficiently...friendly, he thought.

It was a fortunate thing that the elves of Eregion had little memory of their homeland. Annatar himself had been absent from Aman so long that he doubted he remembered most of the customs that had dominated their foolish, quaint lives, before his Master had darkened the lands in his wisdom.

(But Annatar would not repeat Melkor’s mistakes.)

It was a mistake, to assume that all craft of the Noldor was worthy only to steal, and cherish. Craft should be _used_. Craft should be _improved_. And whatever Celebrimbor was hiding from him, that was the most coveted secret of all.

So he removed a vial from his sleeve, hearing Celebrimbor leave his bath at last, and tipped it into one glass goblet. Then he crushed the vial to shards in his hand, and banished them, leaving his skin unmarked.

Frankly, using the potion at all was careless. Celebrimbor could discover that something was wrong. He likely _would_ , if Annatar wasn’t very good at concealing his motives. But it was mere days until he would leave, and all _must_ be ready by then, or all was moot in any case.

Celebrimbor emerged from the bathroom, apparently unconcerned with nudity if he believed himself alone, and walked to the window, gazing out at the sea. His form was magnificent, Annatar appreciated. It was very like his grandfather’s, with a breadth of shoulder and hardness of muscle rarely seen in the Eldar, dipping down to a beautifully unmarred back. _Perhaps I will not scourge this one right away_ , Annatar thought fondly. Marring beauty was its own reward, a gift he had given himself many times, but--

No, he had been too hasty in the past. Nelyafinwë would have been far more cooperative if he’d been allowed to believe in some rescue, some chance of preserving his own beauty and inviolability for longer. Too hasty, too hasty, goaded by his master into rash action. Not again.

(He would not repeat Melkor’s mistakes.)

Perhaps he moved. Perhaps Celebrimbor was not quite so immersed in his thoughts as Annatar had thought him. Either way, he saw the tension lines form suddenly on that magnificent back as the smith realized he was not alone, and slowly turned to regard him. “Annatar,” he said, his voice far more hesitant than usual.

(He didn’t even realize how much more hesitant he was than all his uncles, his father, his grandfather, always afraid to be spurned, feeling he deserved it no matter how many lifetimes of lesser creatures he toiled to preserve and enliven the beautiful things of the world.

Annatar _loved_ that.

He would be _so easy_ to break.)

Annatar offered a smile. He had practiced this particular one in the mirror a thousand and fifty-six times, before setting off for Eregion. That was one thing prisoners were very good for: honest reactions. He knew, long before he devised a plan to walk amongst elves as a Giver of Gifts, that his smile was something to be feared, and amended it to an exacting perfection, a gesture that would only give the impression of calm and happiness.

He offered his smile, and saw it returned. Celebrimbor did not practice in the mirror, and had a hundred different smiles. This one was higher on one side, as if different parts of him were making up their mind whether they enjoyed seeing him at different rates.

That was annoying. All of Celebrimbor should want to see him. They were so close. The smith didn’t know how close, or to what, but Annatar did. “Greetings, my friend. I found your door ajar, and took the liberty of pouring us a drink, and preparing a small meal. Would you join me?”

Celebrimbor had little choice. It was only _hospitable_ , after all. Elves who wanted to be thought of as “good” were easy. Celebrimbor was easy.

(Except he wasn’t, which was why Annatar was here, no matter what he told himself.)

“I really should focus on my work tonight,” Celebrimbor said, and strode back to his bedchamber, emerging with a long silk robe in green. Never red. Never ever red with a star.

Easy.

“You wouldn’t send me out to eat this alone, would you?” Drop the smile, by thirty percent. Eyes, wider. Celebrimbor believed his ruse, of course. If he made an expression that wasn’t quite right, well, wasn’t he lucky he was now among elves who were so much more _expressive_ than their stuffy allies up in Lindon.

Even three hundred years later, they were so eager to think of themselves as greater. It still worked.

It had not felt easy at the time.

(It was not easy now.)

“...Perhaps a quick meal,” Celebrimbor relented, and tucked a strand of dark hair behind one ear, cuffs and rings and chains glinting there in the crystal lamplight. Annatar’s fingertips twitched to see them. At least one of the cuffs, a silver one with a single winking ruby, he had made, before Celebrimbor’s brow had begun to furrow upon seeing him.

(Why?)

Celebrimbor sat, and for a moment, they ate. It felt self-indulgent, something Annatar rarely bothered with when he was alone. The act gave him ample time to study those he was with, assessing their reactions, cleaning all he could of their habits, their manners, their actions when they let down their guard.

Finally, when half the wine was drunk and the potion he’d made should be taking hold, he leaned in, feeling a bright spark of heat in his breast. “You’ve been hiding something from me, my friend.” Concerned, knowing, caring. Brow furrowed, but eyes entreating. Hand palm up, on the table. Offering.

Celebrimbor’s gaze sharpened, and he met Annatar’s eyes. “Hiding something from you?”

“You draw away when I come near. You spend your time with the dwarves, spurning my company. Have I not given to you of myself?” _With both hands?_

(He would not make Melkor’s mistakes.)

Something flickered across Celebrimbor’s handsome features. He looked somewhat like Finwë, Annatar thought, a remnant of an Age where his bloodline had been so much more relevant. “What do you think I’ve not told you?”

This would be the moment. Annatar felt his blood quickening. The spark of heat inside him flared. Surely, the potion would be working now, and Celebrimbor would feel himself at ease, replete, in full trust. Yes, he would likely realize what had happened in the morning, and Annatar’s cover would be blown, but that was fine. It was time in any case. He just needed to know, for certain, that there was nothing he’d _missed_.

The potion would be working, now. He could be blunt. “Why do you draw away when I come near?” he asked, and leaned in close. Celebrimbor’s hair was still damp from his bath, clinging to his neck and shoulders in soft tendrils of brown so dark it looked nearly black when wet. Annatar could smell the soap and sweet oils he used to cleanse and perfume himself, and at such a close range, they were making him almost dizzy. There was a single droplet, slowly making its way down from Celebrimbor’s hairline to his neck. “Do you no longer wish for my counsel, my friend?”

Celebrimbor gave him a wan, hesitant smile. “It isn’t that. It--no, it’s nothing.”

Frustrating. The feeling seethed within him, making his pulse speed. It was too warm, the wine burning through him, and how could Celebrimbor still look so composed when the potion worked its way through him? Perhaps he hadn’t had enough. The concentration was made for him, but Annatar had rarely worked his skills on an elf so beautifully muscled.

(Not for long, long, long years.)

Even the smallest amount of biological difference could ruin the effect, or change it. Alchemy was stressful that way. It was one reason he rarely used potions, preferring things he could wield with power rather than subtle menace.

Hoping to inspire a reciprocal action in Celebrimbor, he raised his goblet, and drained it. “And yet, it’s enough that you knew exactly what I spoke of,” he entreated, his eyes widened for effect. “You, you must know that you can...share with me.” His voice failed him for a moment, as the strong wine made its way down his throat. What wine had Celebrimbor been hoarding here, anyway? He’d simply grabbed a bottle, convenient to his purpose.

He caught a glimpse of the label, just as Celebrimbor finished his own goblet, still looking no more than slightly sorrowful. The script was not cirth, but runic.

_Dwarven wine?_

Ah. That made sense. Fucking dwarves. He had made the potion to blend seamlessly with elven wines. Another failure. Why was the corruption of the elves, of _this one elf_ , always so much more frustrating than he’d anticipated, even when it was easier than it should have been?

“Annatar...are you feeling quite well?”

Annatar managed a smile. It wasn’t his usual, and he saw Celebrimbor’s brow furrow again. _Stop it. Stop looking at me like that. You look at me like I want you to, and you must react to my form the way I command, or not at all._ The droplet continued, flowing slowly down over Celebrimbor’s collarbone.“I think dwarven wine does not agree with me,” he said, and felt his cheeks flushing.

_Flushing?_

He had had dwarven wine before, many times. The fair form he’d chosen had never reacted so in the past. His pulse thudded dully, but loudly in his ears, and he reached up to pluck at his collar, hoping for some relief by loosening it.

“It might be the wine,” Celebrimbor agreed, looking concerned as he reached across the table, and took Annatar’s hand between both of his own. The feeling of skin against his own crackled like the fires of his forge, and Annatar heard himself gasp, heat traveling up his arm from the touch, making new sensations ripple through him with every brush of fingertips against his palm. “Or,” Celebrimbor continued, “it might be what you put _in_ the wine.”

“What?”

The words didn’t make sense for a long moment. Everything felt too-hot, like something was crawling under his skin, even though Annatar had felt things crawling under his skin many times and knew the sensation to be very different.

Celebrimbor gave him a concerned, confused look, and did not let go of his hand. Each tiny movement sparked more sensations, and Annatar sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers curling. “What did you do, my friend?” he asked, and there was something like sorrow in his tone.

“You switched the goblets,” Annatar accused, and felt curiously light. He leaned in close, and could not have said why he was suddenly so desperate to smell the soap and sweet oil clinging to Celebrimbor’s beautiful shoulders, or why his cock was suddenly so hard.

“You’ve been acting strange,” Celebrimbor said, unapologetic. “If you hadn’t put anything in it, it wouldn’t have mattered. What was it?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Annatar pulled his hand back, or tried to. Celebrimbor was strong. “This--isn’t what was supposed to--“ Mixed with dwarven wine. Maiar biology, a created form, instead of a powerful Noldor. What would be the effect? It might be interesting, if he’d done this on purpose, carefully watching and making notes. As it was, this was just ridiculous.

He lurched forward, knocking the goblets to the floor, hearing crystal shatter. Nothing mattered except the pounding, urgent heat coursing through him, turning his blood to fire, making him itch and ache every second something wasn’t touching his skin. He wound up half on the table, half in Celebrimbor’s lap, his robes knocking everything between them to the floor. Celebrimbor had a moment--Annatar watched his expression change through lust-clouded eyes, watched him make the _decision_ to stay where he was no matter what, and that was its own kind of permission.

“Annat--“

Celebrimbor’s mouth tasted of wine, and Annatar drank greedily, licking at his tongue. A surge of wet heat rippled through him, making him shudder, long fingers digging into wet hair and yanking him close. He lost his balance, uncaring--

But it didn’t matter, because Celebrimbor’s strong hands were on his back, broad and warm and skilled, sparking friction and heat wherever they touched. Annatar heard himself let out a strange, feral sound, and took what he wanted, what he had never quite known he had begun to want in the long years spent working together and speaking of craft. His hands threaded in soft damp hair, and he felt wild, like one of his creatures turned loose, but instead of wreaking havoc he was clinging and snarling and hungry, attempting to wrap his form around Celebrimbor’s powerful body.

Dimly, over the sound of his pounding heart and his own low growling, he heard Celebrimbor panting beneath him, and felt the heaving of the smith’s chest against his own. That was to be expected, he supposed, with the part of his mind that was still working. His form _was_ pleasing to behold. He had made certain.

But it wasn’t the beauty of his features he thought Celebrimbor was clinging to, and with a strange, disconnected realization, he finally heard what Celebrimbor was whispering.

“Yes,” he was panting, between bruising kisses, his hands sliding down to Annatar’s waist, yanking him closer. “Yes,” and, “You _fool_ , Annatar--“

Fool? Him?

Well, perhaps _currently_ , but this was a biological accident. This would be remedied.

Once his form stopped feeling quite so berserk, he would explain everything, find some lovely words to paper over the mistake. But now he was hungry, as only beasts could be hungry, and Celebrimbor was lifting him as if he weighed no more than a kitten. “Tyelpë,” he purred, and felt Celebrimbor’s cock twitch against his thigh.

The next thing he knew, he was on his back on that table, the remaining cheese knocked haplessly to the floor, and he was shoving the stupid green robes off of Celebrimbor’s shoulders, baring them. They were still beautiful and untouched, until his fingernails sank in, and he heard Celebrimbor let out a startled curse. “Were your nails always that long?”

“I don’t care,” Annatar groaned, and indulged himself, leaning up to lick up that droplet of sweat or bathwater, his tongue dragging over Celebrimbor’s nipple, making him shiver. “You--you must, you understand, I _need_ \--“

“I know.” Celebrimbor kissed him, deep and thorough, and some of the shivering madness in his body calmed with that, latching onto that warm mouth and those strong hands as if they were the only things keeping him grounded in this reality, in the body he had crafted himself. He had crafted it too well and not well enough; well enough that it could feel even these foolish sensations, not so well that he could not avoid being a slave to those feelings.

 _I should have asked him for help crafting this body, too_ , he thought hazily, as Celebrimbor’s large hands parted his robes, as if he hadn’t switched the goblets, as if they were both potion-maddened and on fire within. Nothing made sense--all there was was _want_ , so stark that he shivered when Celebrimbor bared him, even as he clung with nails and teeth and legs that he’d probably made too long.

He hoped Celebrimbor truly _appreciated_ the way this beautiful red-gold hair looked, wrapped around his fist. He’d spent time getting the shade _just so_. If he was going to be enjoyed like some rutting beast, Celebrimbor had better at least be paying attention.

He looked up, about to say as much, and his breath caught.

Celebrimbor was staring at him, unclouded, his face open, his expression soft. The same rough hunger that dominated Annatar’s drunken form was writ large there.

(But if the goblets had been switched, why was Celebrimbor touching him?)

(If he was the one affected, why did Celebrimbor look so desperate?)

“You really are a fool,” Celebrimbor told him again, and the world spun as he was lifted, carried into the bedroom as if he were an unconscious captive.

Or a sack of grain. He supposed that was what most people had experience carrying.

“Tyelpë,” he groaned, when Celebrimbor stopped touching him for a moment, and his body started to burn. He turned over, desperate for some friction, but rutting against his hand or the bed did nothing. By his dark master, he _really_ must recreate this experiment properly when he had his wits about him.

(If he had had this so long ago, had been able to make beautiful Nelyafinwë writhe and beg for his touch, how different that might have been, how easy, how lovely, and his master never would have stolen his dear prize and hung him from the mountain where any wandering minstrel-king might pluck him away.)

(He would not make his Master’s mistakes.)

(He was making mistakes all his own, all new.)

Torture was infinitely more enjoyable when giving, he thought, his mind racing. If Celebrimbor had realized what he was, he could certainly--

\--no, he _couldn’t_ just kill him and leave, he would die himself if he wasn’t being touched, and he let out a low, uneven sob when touching himself did nothing, less than nothing, for the fires that raced through him. He was a creature of forbidden fires, yet he _burned_ , felt as if he were being cast into lava to end for good, felt as if he stood in his own beloved Orodruin so far away and had somehow missed a step in chasing something precious.

Then something precious touched his back, and he shoved mindlessly back against it, seeking that touch. “You mustn’t stop touching me,” he said shakily. “Not until...it wears off.”

“All right.”

Celebrimbor did better. His naked form, powerful and lithe at once, wrapped around Annatar, hands sliding around his waist to caress his hips, his abdomen, his chest, then down to curl around his dripping cock. “You are magnificent,” Celebrimbor murmured, and--

Well, of course he was. Annatar panted, throwing his head back, turning it to claim another kiss from Celebrimbor’s already-bruising lips. “Tyelpë,” he panted, and rocked back, seeking--yes, finding--rubbing against Celebrimbor’s own hard cock. “Don’t make me beg.”

Because he was coming to find that he was not so far from such a thing as he had thought. In fact, he was on the verge of it, the words already rising to his lips.

But instead of sweet words, he found himself snarling, “Why do you call me fool? You, who have me at a disadvantage?”

“Through your own actions,” Celebrimbor said, reproof in his tone even as he slicked his fingers with oil, and slid them close to tease and test between Annatar’s legs, making him hiss.

“P-perhaps. But...”

“I call you fool,” Celebrimbor told him, with such raw honesty that Annatar wanted to see how many brands he could take before he actually died of pain, “because you were so certain you must drug me to have me like this.”

He pressed a kiss to the back of Annatar’s shoulder, and shifted, sliding out his fingers to replace them with his cock. “All you needed to do was ask. I have long since been yours for the asking, _mirya-nin_.”

Then Celebrimbor’s cock was opening him up, and Annatar could have sworn he was as skilled at this as he was in his forge.

(He wasn’t. Not skill, it must be innate talent, because Celebrimbor was making little gasping, hitching noises, as if he could not believe such a thing were real, and Annatar _knew_ he was the only one to feel this, in all of Celebrimbor’s long years serving others. Not so generous with himself as all that, after all.)

Or perhaps it was the potion making him _feel_ , because Celebrimbor’s thrusts were uneven and erratic, with more of longing than of finesse, and Annatar threw himself back onto them, wild in their coupling, and he heard Celebrimbor’s voice asking for something, and answered _yes, yes, anything,_ because he could have anything as long as he moved inside Annatar like _that_.

(Celebrimbor also did not make Melkor’s mistakes.)

Strong hands encircled him, dragged him back onto every slick thrust, over and over, until Annatar’s mind could take no more, and he lost himself, shuddering and delirious with pleasure, with Celebrimbor’s whisper in his ear, calling him things that made no sense, whispering that he was _beloved_ , of course, that he did not need to go so far.

That he should never doubt that he, above all others, was _precious._

~

Annatar left the next morning.

Celebrimbor burned the green robe.

~

He had to choose a finger to wear it on, that was all.

Laws and customs meant little to him.

Celebrimbor meant nothing at all.

Rings were meant for fingers. Gold rings, even more so.

~

The other members of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain were heartsick when he told them. They scattered as they were told, hiding their work. Only one of them asked, “How did you discover his true nature, Lord Celebrimbor?”

Celebrimbor did not pause, fastening his armor on, then removing one cuff from his ear, tossing it into the fireplace. A tiny ruby shone in the flames. It would not perish. His hearth was hardly hot enough to melt silver. It could not even melt his lips, which had felt frozen since he had uttered his vows in the stillness of the night, and awakened to find his worst nightmare had taken root in his soul.

“Some evils cannot be hidden by fair form,” he lied.

~

When the army came for him, he was ready, he thought, and stood in front of the doors, knowing himself proud, but knowing his three treasures were hidden, even from the one who knew all of his heart.

(He would not repeat Finwë’s mistake.)

~

“You cannot hide from me, Tyelpë.”

_I can. I must._

“No, not even there, my sweet. Not even in your mind. We are one, are we not? Sworn to each other? Why, look, I bear your ring.”

_It is not mine._

“I claim it as yours. Will that make you happy? You said, I had only to ask, and you would be mine.”

_I am. Would that it were otherwise._

“But it cannot be otherwise. It is done, is it not? Ah, you had so much more to say before I split your tongue. Shall I heal you again, Tyelpë? Will you call me precious once more, if I do?”

Once something was his, he would not let it go.

(He would not repeat Melkor’s mistakes.)

(The only way to keep what he wanted for himself was to remove it from the world.)

_You have done this before._

More of a betrayal than anything, the words said, heavy in his mind. Annatar stroked his face. “No. Not even to your dear uncle. Even he never gave of himself to me so sweetly. Tyelpë. Not even he thought to ease his pain by doing such a thing.”

_It wasn’t my pain I was easing._

“No, because you are kind. Can you feel what I think about your kindness, Tyelpë?”

_I wish that I could not._

“You should be proud. You are the first of your kind since Elwë to bind yourself in marriage to a Maiar. Are you proud, Tyelpë?”

_I am...tired._

Nelyafinwë had sounded that way, before the end. Melkor had chained Nelyafinwë up still living, and thus, had lost his favorite plaything.

Annatar would not repeat Melkor’s mistake.


End file.
